A time-tested tale of plush micro-fibered self-sacrifice

“Hero” is too strong a word in this case.

Instead, call me “loving husband,” or “caring friend.” But not “hero.”

Because our new recliner was delivered yesterday, and I feel it is my duty alone to put that recliner through a rigorous regimen of exhaustive comfort tests before I would ever think of letting my wife or one of our friends sit in it.

And I must say that it passed the first test with flying colors, as I dozed in it after supper with a book lying open on my chest.

That was only the first test, of course. There will be many to follow before I can declare the recliner safe for my loved ones to try out. After the reclining-with-a-book test, I’ll have to see how it stands up to my sitting in it with a magazine, and then a whole newspaper. The Sunday paper test will stretch for hours. Maybe longer if there’s a good game on TV.

And then it will be the reclining-while-listening-to-music test. I should be able to get through Muddy Waters, BB King, and Taj Mahal in a day or two, but it’ll take the better part of a week to see how it stands up to Jimmy Buffett, Creedence Clearwater Revival, and Bob Seger. There’s no telling how long it will take before I’m comfortable that it has passed the Rolling Stones, Stevie Ray Vaughan, and ZZ Top tests.

Of course, I won’t rest until I’ve gone back to the start and repeated the whole regimen with an ice-tinkling beverage in one hand.

It’s worth all the dutiful diligence just to see the look on my wife’s face each day. Oh, a casual observer might mistake her expression for envy—or even annoyance—but I know that it’s the reverent look of a wife’s gratitude that her man would be so thoughtful as to subject our new recliner to a grueling battery of tests before he would risk letting his sweetie have a go at it.

She remembers how it was that warm May weekend many years ago when we bought the hammock and strung it between the ash and cherry trees in the yard. It was nearly September before I was convinced that it was safe for her and the kids to try it.

But, hey, that’s just the kind of guy I am.

I know my Mom would be proud of me if she were still with us. But I can take comfort in knowing that she saw that giving side of my character before she left us.

In her last years of life, she found it harder and harder to find the right Christmas present for every child, grandchild, and great-grandchild in her growing family, so she decided that she would give each of us the one gift that she knew we would love: An individual tin of her home-baked cookies.

About a week before Christmas, she would move in with my wife and me for three days or so, because we had two ovens and she could crank out the goodies in record time. And she refused to let us do any of the work, because this was her gift to her loved ones.

Still, I volunteered my services when she wasn’t looking. I knew she would be heartbroken if any of her darlings would be gashed or gored by the sharp edges of a broken cookie that she had made with her own hands, so I disposed of those shattered, treacherous treats for her. Of course, I knew she would mourn their loss if I just threw them in the trash, so I ate each and every one of them, just to be sure that the world was safe from their mayhem.

It’s what a loving son does for his mom.

She would sometimes yell to me from the other room, “You stay away from those cookies!” but I knew she was only testing my resolve. It didn’t deter me in the fulfillment of my duties, because Mom didn’t raise any quitters.

In fact, I even subjected many of her batches to the punishing tensile-strength test, measuring how much pressure a cookie would take before it broke in half and I had to scarf it down to ensure the family’s safety. But I didn’t mind, because I did it out of love. And it wasn’t all that bad, because, by coincidence, the tensile-test washouts happened to be chocolate chip cookies, which are my favorites. As a safety measure, I kept a glass of milk close by.

Mom is gone now, and though you may find it hard to believe, I really miss all the rigorous quality-control sacrifices I did for her at Christmas time.

Anyway, if she could see me now, I know she would be proud of me today, comforted that our new recliner is guaranteed to be safe for our loved ones to enjoy—once I have put it through its paces.

It’s just what a loving, caring, considerate man does for the people who are important to him.

And so, as I say, if you see me stretched out in my new recliner—my eyes closed, my hands folded across my stomach, a gentle rumble echoing from my throat and chest—don’t call me “hero.”

In fact, don’t call me anything, because there’s an important test going on, and you wouldn’t want to break my concentration.

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